


Quicksilver Smile

by aintnoonefancy



Series: Mercury is a Poison [3]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Emotional Abuse, Gaslighting, Graphic Description of Corpses, I swear, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, In Which Joey Drew Nearly Cries Over Coffee, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Violence, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other Characters are involved but briefly, Overworking, Panic Attack, Past Relationship(s), Physical Abuse, Previous Murder Attempt, Sleep Deprivation, Starvation, Threats of Violence, Victim Blaming, denied food as punishment, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aintnoonefancy/pseuds/aintnoonefancy
Summary: Freedom from the studio seems like trading one prison for another.
Relationships: Henry Stein/Joey Drew/Bertrum Piedmont, Joey Drew/Bertrum Piedmont, Joey Drew/Henry Stein
Series: Mercury is a Poison [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785643
Comments: 12
Kudos: 4





	1. Heavy Metal Poisoning

**Author's Note:**

> Rape scene occurs from "Henry lifted him and slammed his back against the wall." to "he answered the call, and hated himself."

The studio returned to the solid, non-inky real world with a crack and creak as reality warped and reshaped to fit them back in the timeline or whatever the hell had happened to displace them, to lock Henry into loop after loop after loop after loop after loop after loop after--

_Fuck_.

Henry tugged on his hair until strands came away in his hands, sharp prickling along his scalp and chill globules of ink and hair clung to his fingers. The walls were still ink-stained and bloated, a pool of ink still standing around his ankles, but Bendy was gone and They were silent. He steadied himself, sucking in air that stank of ink but was getting cleaner with every second, and approached Joey. 

Joey, who clutched tightly to the book, his oak brown eyes wild and manic, like some fey force had overtaken him and driven all sense from his skull. “It’s over,” he whispered, first softly, and then again as he began to laugh, the sound all the more ugly as he tried to hold it in. “God in Heaven, it’s finally over.”

Falling to his knees, mindless of the ink puddling along the ground, Joey doubled over, as if to cradle the sound to his chest, or maybe to shove the book under his sternum. His whole body shook. 

A headache throbbed at Henry’s temple. Those thirty years with only Them as a nuisance were a distant, pleasant dream. He laid a firm hand on Joey’s neck. “Control yourself,” he hissed, thumb digging in. Joey’s laughter ceased with a sharp gasp. “It’s not like your work is done yet.”

“No,” Joey protested. “ _No_!” He tried to buck off Henry’s grasp, elbow catching him in the knee. 

Henry dropped onto his back with a sharp cry of surprise. Ink splattered every which way. Joey stood to his full height-- unimpressive normally, but supine he could not easily assert his greater height-- and loomed over him.

“You broke the loops.” 

“Of course _I_ did, Joey!” Henry raised his voice even more. “Calm _down_!”

“Henry?!” Alison, right on cue, called for him.

His knee ached slightly as he crawled backwards. Joey was not nearly strong enough to fight him properly, but he also was not nearly as weak as Henry remembered him being. That could be rectified soon enough though. 

“Joey, please calm down,” Henry begged, angling his voice higher, pleading, and lifting up his hands in a placating motion. “It’s me, your pal, Henry. You don’t want to hurt me again, Joey.”

Tom and Alison stormed in, Tom with his wrench held at the ready and Alison her sword pointed right at Joey’s throat. “Back off,” Alison snarled at him. 

All color drained from Joey’s face. “No, wait,” he stammered, staggering back from them with one of his own hands raised. The other held the book ever tighter to his chest. “You misunderstand--”

“It’s okay,” Henry exaggerated his wince and offered a shaky smile. “I should have known not to startle him. It was my fault.”

If looks could kill, Tom wouldn’t need any weapon, ax or wrench. He took a step closer to Joey, only for the man’s leg to buckle and send him tumbling backward. 

Oh, how the tables turned. 

Kneeling beside him, Alison fretted over him, hands roaming and searching for any other injuries. “You did it!” she whispered once she ascertained he wasn’t hiding any other injuries, unable to keep her excitement from her voice. “We’re free.”

“Not fully,” Tom barked from a few feet off. He held Joey up by the front of his shirt with one hand and readied his wrench with the other. “Someone’s not paid up.”

Henry stamped down his instinctual flinch at the term. 

“I-- I can explain,” Joey whimpered. He eyed the wrench fearfully. “The Gods have Their holds on everyone in the studio.”

“Except you,” Henry oh-so-helpfully pointed out.

Even more color drained from the man’s expression, abject terror twisting his features, as Tom shook him. “On a technicality only!” he corrected desperately. “All I intend-- once you cross the threshold outside, your bodies _will_ begin to destabilize! My knowledge is useful!”

That was probably not a lie. Henry pursed his lips and weighed his options. Tom probably already knew that much, and the man would not take any sort of half-truths on that front lightly. Even if Alison had forgotten the particulars of her previous life, would take Tom’s side in a heartbeat if she got the wrong impression from him. 

He had to keep as many allies as possible until he knew where he stood with Them.

“He’s right,” sighed Henry. He met Joey’s gaze steadily, blue-gray locking with muddy brown, daring him to challenge him “We had to infuse Sammy with ink to keep him from collapsing and drowning in his own lungs.”

A heavy silence fell over the group, broken only by ink sloshing in the distance and Joey’s shaking, labored breathing.

“We need to find the others,” Alison decided. 

Tom agreed with a nod.

“Probably a good idea.” 

It was _maybe_ a good idea, depending on who remembered what. Bertrum had seemed not to care that he was not actually Joey when he tried to kill him, but how much of that was just the ink? That said, he could only control things he was aware of, and letting a whole slew of unknowns run around the studio was not something that settled well with him.

“Can you release me?” Joey pleaded. 

Tom lifted up the wrench again.

“Understandable.”

That said, the muscular man set Joey back on his feet with a snarled, “Behave,” before approaching and offering Henry a hand up. 

Knowing just how well Joey obeyed when brought in line by threats, Henry smiled genially and accepted the hand. Alison and Tom on either side of him, Joey pulling up the rear, they started to ascend back through the studio in search of everyone else. 

* * *

It would not be easier to list the dead, nor the living, nor even the missing. So many dead, their lives cut short. Even those alive still felt the long reach of Their hungry claws. With every name confirmed, one way or another, the mood became increasingly somber, and Joey felt increasingly ill. 

They gathered a crowd of those victimized by the ink in the old orchestral room. Too many bodies pressed into the space, and yet, not nearly enough. Haggard expressions uncountable, shadowed by too many years of fear. 

Joey had roped them all into this. Many of them he personally dragged into the ink, when his mind had become wet and slick and dark with Their laughter and Their fingers in his skull.

“I will reconcile the known casualties against the employee leger,” Joey mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. Henry startled him by gripping onto his shoulder and leaning in.

“You have plenty of work ahead of you,” he hissed.

He did. He had so much to do. He needed to find the baseline first, understand how many of these dozens he needed to snatch secure from the Gods’ hold, to inventory the myriad things that were taken from each of them.

Like Lacie and Tom, each missing an arm. Bertrum, visible metal along his jaw and, as he had noticed before he had replaced his gloves, evidently his (too many) hands as well. Susie with her face mangled and misshapen. Jack had his legs still, sure, but they were rendered useless, crushed long ago, but unlike Joey, They had not seen enough use in him. Even those who appeared no worse off had something under their skin, in their minds. Sammy’s assuredness in reality, Norman’s voice, Shawn’s viscera replaced by some sort of material that squeaked and could not be healthy long term, Johnny who had been _inside_ the organ--

Henry tightened his hold on his shoulder. Pain shot down his arm, following the same burning trails of the dislocation so many years ago, and his fingers twitched tighter around the book. 

“Get your head out of the clouds, Joey,” Henry ordered. 

“Of course,” Joey agreed, voice faint in his ears. He opened the book to a fresh page and began jotting down notes, listing the names of the known dead and apparent and not so apparent sacrifices made to the Gods.

“We should see who is able to leave,” Alison suggested. 

That was a good idea and an excellent chance to collect more information. Joey idly, distantly, wondered how much Tom had told her about the machine beforehand and how much remained, conscious or unconscious. 

Then Henry nudged Joey forward. He stumbled a bit, free hand jerking to his hip for stability, before he made himself _useful._

With broad sweeping gestures, suddenly Joey was larger than life, his voice echoing over the crowd. “Come on now,” he called out. All eyes, or what was left of eyes, found Joey and bore a hole through him. He had to admit, it was still a bit thrilling, to become all smiles and forced cheer and fluid movements. “We’ve much to complete and an excess of hands to make light the work! The nature of our escape from the ink has left an unknowable wound upon us all and to spare further pain and suffering, I ask you to cooperate and be patient. The last thing I want is for any of you to return to your lives only to lose them in a week because we were in too great a hurry to ensure the details of your safety. These precautions are for _your_ sake-- hardly mine. My health would be much improved without several dozen with a personal, justified vendetta cramped into a single building.”

It was telling enough that he managed to get anyone to laugh, even if bitterly or hatefully. At least he was as useful as ever. 

“Now if you would please follow orderly toward the front foyer in pairs, the processing will begin…”

* * *

Grant had started to melt into a puddle the second Joey showed his face. 

Joey said something, a quip of some sort about holding his head up and keeping a positive attitude, maybe even a joke about keeping his composure. He couldn’t recall. He’d taken the old leger and stole away to his office with it and sat down and--

Joey fought to keep from throwing up again. 

**_Adelaide Fletcher,_ ** _dead._ **_Ainsley McGill,_ ** _dead._ **_Aleksandra Nikolaev,_ ** _dead._ **_Alexis Demetriou,_ ** _dead._ **_Alojzy Andrysiak,_ ** _dead._ **_Alton Malone,_ ** _dead._ **_Ami Matsuoka,_ ** _dead._ **_Caitlin Deasmhumhain,_ ** _dead._ **_Chrysanthos Stavros,_ ** _dead._

Alojzy’s body was effectively unrecoverable, nothing but hunks of ink and flesh amalgamated together, still _wet_ , but so terribly recognizable despite the ax wound in his face, and, oh, how his brother had _screamed._ Joey’s jaw ached, swollen, broken, crushing his smile into something smaller. 

**_Dawid Górski,_ ** _dead._ **_Edwina Hopkins,_ ** _dead._ **_Eleuterio Bonaventura,_ ** _dead._ **_Faolán Mac Aodha,_ ** _dead._ **_Flora Lohrenz,_ ** _dead._ **_Flore St. Martin,_ ** _dead._ **_Gabrielė Adomaitis,_ ** _dead._ ****

Gabrielė, they found her by her cries for help. They found her wedged between one fallen beam and the next, her torso flattened and ribs pulverized, and they found the rest of her legs came away with a wet squelching noise. Joey had kept smiling. Broad. Wide. Like if he smiled wide enough, her concave, crushed body would expand back to normal, innards rearranged and reshaped. You could live without legs. Not without organs.

**_Gerard Großel,_ ** _dead._ **_Giada Cremona,_ ** _dead._ **_Jasmin Ivers,_ ** _dead._ **_Juliana Nagel,_ ** _dead._ **_Kathleen Clery,_ ** _dead._ **_Kazimieras Astrauckas,_ ** _dead._ **_Leon Smith,_ ** _dead._ **_Livio Abategiovanni,_ ** _dead._

Giada and Juliana they found together. Literally. Torsos combined together to a twisted, gnarled mess of two skin tones, four arms merged into three, one horribly bulging neck and exposed trachea. Henry had grabbed Joey about the waist, holding him up, even as his knees turned to water. His grin felt too warm, pain and swelling burning, and his head spun, but Henry was there, Henry held him, unobtrusively helping him remain upright and steer the ship. Joey had missed that. He missed Giada and Juliana more.

**_Lorne Belmont,_ ** _dead._ **_Lynn Ellis,_ ** _dead._ **_Marcia Giles,_ ** _dead._ **_Marian Kozioł,_ ** _dead._ **_Marisa Guerriero,_ ** _dead._ **_Mary Wyatt,_ ** _dead._ **_Mieczsław Kozioł,_ ** _dead._

Marcia was as bright and loud as her hair, and a godsend after Henry had quit his job as an animator. She had pulled his ass out of the fire of a late deadline more than once, staying late to help him finish or to help him bullshit his way through another extension. He only knew the body was hers because one of her eyes was still intact in her crushed skull, and her hair was still red. Not all of it natural. 

“Joey.”

Henry’s voice in the doorway nearly startled his pen out of his hand. Instead, he grinned at the man as he approached him.

“Joey,” he repeated, softer. Kinder. Gentler. It might have hurt less if he screamed. If his hands were rough and too tight on his shoulders 

Joey melted into the contact and buried his face in Henry’s chest. 

“They’re dead,” Joey whimpered. “I-- They’re all dead.”

“They are,” Henry agreed, now rubbing his back. “They died, probably in horrific agony.”

Rage bubbled up, a welcome reprieve from the sick, sticky guilt. “ _You_ killed most of them!” he shouted. “With an _ax_!”

“I did.”

Joey stopped short, trembling, hands fisted in Henry’s shirt and mouth open. So many words he could say, yet his mind was a terrifying blank.

“I killed them because they tried to kill me, because they were out of their minds in pain. Pain _you_ put them in.”

“No, no, I--”

“Joey.” Henry took hold of his wrists with one hand, forcing them overhead and Joey’s spine and shoulders to protest the strain. “Joey, _you_ were the one that started this nonsense with the Gods. _You_ were the one making all the deals. _You_ endangered all their lives. _You_ put the bottom line ahead of your morals.”

“No,” he whimpered. “No!”

Henry picked up the list and scanned it. “The Kozio siblings,” he noted, and Joey couldn’t even bring himself to get angry over the mispronunciation. “They were the ones we found drowned and all filled up with ink, right?”

Joey remained silent and glared at Henry through the tears.

“They were long dead, Joey, long before I even thought about coming back. They drowned. In your mess. Because of you.”

“Damn you, Henry.”

“You’ve already damned us all to Hell. Start taking your portion of the blame, Joey. Not everyone is as patient as me.”

When Henry released him, slamming the list back to his desk, Joey slumped in his chair, his back screaming. Joey watched the man he loved storm out and slam the door behind him. Abandoning him yet again. Because he wouldn’t see reason. 

His hands trembled as he wiped the tears away. Something rough and hateful clawed up his throat. 

**_Mirium Lazzari,_ ** _dead._ **_Moise Colbert,_ ** _dead._ **_Morris Malone,_ ** _dead._ **_Muirin Maclomhair,_ ** _dead._ **_Norma Bandoni,_ ** _dead._ **_Pádraig O'Hannigan,_ ** _dead._ ****

Bile. Bile up his throat, and a sob, and too many apologies to fit past his tongue and teeth, caught there like fingers in a machine. Vomit, inky black, spilled out of his mouth, surging forward like a skull shoved into moving pieces, mulched, crushed, until it splintered apart like papier mache or porcelain under tires. The face he so adored, that he peppered in kisses, cupped in his hands like something precious, turned to a pulp of bone and blood. Morris and Muirin had tried to stop him, it, Them, from killing their beloved boss, and he had rent their heads from their necks and thrown them-- the heads- somewhere. Why had he not cared even then to fight back Their influence? He could have. He should have fought harder.

**_Pietro Accardo,_ ** _dead._ **_Raleigh Ashworth,_ ** _dead._ **_Reginald Faulkner,_ ** _dead._ **_Roman Sauber,_ ** _dead._ **_Rowan Whelan,_ ** _dead._ **_Rožė Astrauckas,_ ** _dead._ **_Salomé Pecora, Shannon Jamison,_ ** _dead._

With Rožė found, the last remaining member of the Astrauckas family fell to their knees and _shrieked_ their head off. Tried to knock Joey’s right off too. Only managed to knock them both to the ground, their weight bearing down on his chest, throat. Cursing at him in rapid-fire Russian, Lithuanian, words gargling together as tears and ink dripped down their face. Bertrum pried them off him, fumbling with an extra set of arms, and Henry helped him up and hissed at him to stop smiling already. Joey had stopped then, finally, because he hadn’t realized he was until the muscles relaxed and ached. 

**_Titas Smielsky,_ ** _dead._ **_Vanessa Gaertner,_ ** _dead._ **_Vernon Watson,_ ** _dead._ **_Vincentas Astrauckas,_ ** _dead._ **_Wacław Wawrzaszek,_ ** _dead._ **_Wallace Franks,_ ** _dead._ **_Whitney Sessions,_ ** _dead._ **_Wincenty Slazak,_ ** _dead._

Wallace. _Wally_ . The man, barely more than a child, still so young, so much life ahead of him. Joey screwed his eyes shut and tugged at his hair. No, no, _no._ He didn’t want to remember that, the cold, dark, slipping sliding over his mind, Their laughter in his ears, Their claws on his spine, his mind, his thoughts twisted up in a litany of profane and visceral, of the human and the decidedly not. He did not want to remember claws slicing through flesh, warm liquid flowing over his hands, vibrations of bone catching, slippery organs and meat tangling around claws, Their claws, his claws. He did not want to remember laughter, Theirs, his, as Wally tried to speak Their tongue, tried to reason with Them, or maybe him. 

Bolting out of his chair, Joey fell to the ground, hips weak and sloshing about inside and his entire left leg unwilling to take his weight. 

Fifty two dead. Fifty two of his employees, senselessly murdered. So many by his own hands. Where was Bertrum? Bertrum made him feel human. Where was Henry? Henry made the pain go away. 

Staggering back to his feet, leaning heavily against the nearest wall, he lurched his way out of his office, down the hall. 

The other employees, his other victims, were _merely_ maimed. God, what had he done? The hallway blurred. He tasted ink on his tongue and tears on his lips.

Alison was no longer Ms. Pendel, but some mixture of unconscious thought and memory of only some of the loops, her whole identity lost to a tide of ink. Grant looked okay, until the slightest emotion, then he dripped and sagged and melted where he stood. Joey had stolen limbs, eyes, hunks of flesh and souls and he did it all for the sake of his own pride, his sense of self caught up in being a leading name in the business of animation when he should have been minding his own business in the mundane and not Their world--

He collided with a solid, familiarly warm body. His leg buckled once more, but a hand grabbed him before he could fall. Always before he could fall.

“Henry,” Joey sobbed, throwing himself into the man’s arms. “Henry, _darling_ , help me, _please_.”

Henry’s large hands trailed along his back, fingers slipping between fabric and flesh. He was so warm, so delightfully pleasantly hot, a living furnace. “I’m here now, Joey,” he whispered in his ear. “Let’s go, doll. I’ve got you.”

An arm hooked under his legs, and he hissed a little as his hips ached, but Henry kissed his cheeks, kissed away the tears and shame, and his other arm held him close and tight. He hid in Henry’s broad chest, the scent of his cologne (the same after all these years) and aftershave and the faintest whiff of magic, in years of comfort and memory.

Henry carried him like he was worth something, like he was worth touching. They returned back to his office and a surge of panic caught in Joey’s throat.

“I’m sorry,” Joey cried. “So much damage and death and I can’t fix it-- I can’t-- Henry, please--” 

“Stop that.” Henry’s voice was cold. Joey tried not to flinch. “You certainly can’t do shit if you’re just going to keep whining about it.”

  
He sat him back down in his chair a bit more forcefully than was necessary- but Joey rationalized it easily, because Henry was right, and here Joey was caught up in his own emotions.

“You’re going to find an answer in that book,” Henry told him. Joey swallowed, because he had read it forwards and backwards so many times, surely there wasn’t _that_ much left to study? But then, what other choice did he have? “You’re going to fix this...”

“Or die trying,” Joey finished softly. 

“I wouldn’t have _said_ that,” he snorted, only the slightest emphasis on ‘said’. He tapped impatiently at the book Joey had covered in his list making. “But you have a lot of work ahead of you.”

He did. His shoulders ached and trembled and rose up near his ears. He had so much to do. 

Softly, Henry rested his hand on his shoulder and said, “I’ll get you some coffee.”

He had so much to do, but Henry would be there, pushing him forward when he faltered. A grateful smile flickered across his lips as he cracked open the book and started a fresh notebook.

* * *

Joey prided himself on his handwriting, on it being legible, but he blinked twice, thrice, and realized he had no idea what he had just written. He knew it was the notes for helping Grant, for reverting his state to something more wholly human and stable, seeing as the man was due to visit any day. 

So was Susie. So was Tom. Everyone had their own lives to live, they needed to escape this studio fully, but they wouldn’t be able to until he ensured that the ink was stable again, until the natural wear and tear of daily life wouldn’t rip apart their bodies. They needed tune ups, just to live some semblance of a normal life. As Henry reminded him, that wasn’t living, either.

He needed to- he had to keep going. He needed to prepare for Grant’s arrival, because he had a thought, an avenue to explore, a possible solution. That couldn’t happen if _he didn’t start working._

His spine popped as he peeled himself off the desk, having long ago lost the strength to bother with any sort of posture, and stared at the paper from this new angle. 

_Po---sble to fix unmelt unmix arrange right? Words mean sim. Maybe mean combine or continue or eternal? Ask granco next vis if ----------_

Joey’s head throbbed. Chewing on his lip, tasting blood because he’d long ago ripped the flesh off and left only a raw mess, he fumbled for his mug. The coffee- how many cups? Henry had stopped getting fresh mugs, just topping him off whenever he had reached halfway, and his hands _shook_ \- hit his empty stomach like a stone, bitter and cold. 

He tried again.

_Ask granco if willing to attem atem att--- try glyph with_

The pen skittered across the page. Ink covered his fingers and his breath caught in his throat, remembering ink and blood and strings of intestines and muscle on his fingers -- Joey whined in the back of his throat and bit down hard on his lip.

His hands shook too much to manage to draw the rune properly. He did not dare risk it. He settled for the definitions.

_wit soul counter external solid_

He needed to- he needed- he needed air. He needed to breathe because suddenly his lungs felt like they were replaced with tombstones, carved names, too many empty graves. He stood and the whole world shifted, rushing about his ears and darkness stealing across his vision. His hand blindly found the corner of the desk, his other pressed tightly to his hips, willing both to remain stable.

Slowly, the darkness receded, acetone caught aflame. His office still swam, and the floor seemed alive, but he tripped and limped his way to the door, knuckles white on the doorjamb as he caught his breath and balance.

“What are you doing?”

Joey startled and lost his grip. Henry caught him before he hit the floor. 

“Damn it, Joey, _what_ were you doing?” 

“I need a short break,” he said, then winced as frustration crossed Henry’s features. 

“Really?” Henry asked. “ _Now_?”

Unexpectedly bold, he lifted his chin to meet his gaze. “ _Yes_. I am exhausted, Henry, and I deserve the rest.”

“Show me how much progress you’ve made. Show me that you can help Grant the minute the man walks into this hell hole.”

That confidence, short lived as it was, curled up and died. “I don’t,” he began, then tried to back away from Henry. His hand tightened around his waist, thumb hooking under his rib cage. He inhaled sharply, trying not to cry out, as it brushed against an old bruise. “It’s in progress! It _will_ be completed in a timely manner!”

Henry jerked him closer, other hand joining the one at his waist. “And you’re gonna manage that how?” he purred, dangerously low. “By taking a break every hour?”

“It’s not been an hour,” Joey protested, though he realized abruptly that he had no idea how long it had been since his last break. Surely not an hour?

Henry laughed. “No,” he agreed. “I was being _generous_ \--” Henry lifted him and slammed his back against the wall. 

Stars sparked across his vision and he choked on his own breath. Through the haze, he felt Henry pressing against him. Shaking, he forced his unwilling leg to obey and wrapped them around the other man’s waist. “Henry, darling, of course you’re right,” he whispered breathlessly. Thumbs dug in deeper. “I’m sorry. Let me-- fuck me, please. Then I’ll resume my work. Fuck me. Against the wall.”

At first, he wasn’t sure Henry had even listened to him. Then, chuckling a soft, “You needy slut,” he lowered Joey down enough that he could reach him. “The floor though. My back needs a break from carrying your heavy ass.”

Joey just nodded his assent and braced for the impact of hardwood flooring against his sore back. 

At least Henry was kind enough to go slow as he lay him down. He maneuvered their bodies, pinning him between his bulk and the floor. On his elbows and knees, Joey tried to remember when this had been something gentle. Something he looked forward to. 

Henry undid Joey’s belt, hissing in frustration that he wasn’t helping. Joey bowed his head and bucked his hips, grinding backward until he felt a familiar pressure, and was rewarded when Henry eased his baggy pants off his hips instead of just yanking them out of the way. 

Soon enough, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if Henry had been gentle to start with, or if Joey had ever enjoyed this, ever kept up a stream of consciousness blabber about how delightful everything had felt, how deliciously hot he felt and how he adored every touch. They used to fit together so perfectly. Sometimes just them, sometimes another warm, strong, beautiful body, and, oh, Joey would _babble_ , mindless, out of his skull, unable to focus on anything. 

It did not matter, he reminded himself, and chewed harder on his lip. 

Henry bore down on him, eased the fabric away from his body to expose more of him, as if he wanted to see and touch every inch of him, and he nipped and lapped at his neck, ear, shoulder, so damn close to as beautiful and adoring as his memory. Joey’s body became a tuning fork for something bigger than himself, but it was possession, not love. Love didn’t hurt like this. Every twitch and shiver and every degree of warmth that boiled him from the inside out, hotter, hottest, wherever their bodies connected, twisted up inside him. 

It was wrong wrong wrong wrong- but Henry moaned his name, like he would never, ever, hurt him. Henry’s fingers on his back slotted in the hollows carved into his ribs, walked their way along the mountain range of his spine. His every touch was reverent. 

“I love you,” Henry whispered. “Joey, I love you.”

Joey swallowed a sob and turned it into a keening cry, rolling his hips and arching his back. “I love you Henry,” he answered the call, and hated himself.

* * *

His knees ached. His hips ached. His whole body felt used and abused. There were fresh bruises forming on his elbows and bite marks on his shoulder.

Henry had let him sleep off the afterglow and laid a blanket over him, but he was nowhere to be found now. He hated being thankful for that. For all of that. Self-loathing burned him as he slowly tugged his pants back on, wincing as the motion stressed muscles that had so recently been given a workout.

But he couldn’t manage the buttons of his shirt. His fingers, pale, cold, trembled too much. Tears of frustration built but he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed. 

“Hey, hey, doll, it’s okay,” Henry returned then, setting something down on the desk- Joey wasn’t sure, his vision was still so blurry- and knelt down beside him, soft words and softer hands, encircling his wrists as a comfort, rather than as restraints. “You’re okay, Joey, you’re okay. It’s just a shirt. Come on, let me help you here.”

Joey’s pride snapped, melted down so many years ago and given away as a trinket to inky gods, and he sobbed as Henry dressed him. 

“You’re okay,” Henry soothed. “You’re okay. I love you. I love you, doll, you’re doing so well.”

“I’m tired, Henry,” he sobbed. “I’m tired, I’m so damned tired.”

That was a mistake. Those hands fisted up in the fabric. “Don’t push it,” Henry warned. “You _just_ got what you wanted.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry means nothing unless you change. You’re always sorry, but you keep going back to the same sort of shit.”

“Right.”

Henry shoved him back and went back to Joey’s desk. 

His shirt was still partially unbuttoned. Joey picked himself back up to a sitting position, staring blearily as Henry gathered up his notes-- an unexpected surge of panic struck him at the thought that Henry would damage them somehow, but no. He just threw them down in front of him.

Joey bit back another apology. “Thank you,” he said instead. Henry grunted and set down a full mug of coffee. He noted the lighter color. Cream? Milk? Maybe even sugar? Henry hadn’t let him have any of that for ages. He’d said it was wasted on him- eyes roaming, up and down- and that black coffee was easier for him, and it was already very generous of him to be running coffee for him anyway. His fingers, ice cold, wrapped around the mug gratefully and he inhaled deeply. Definitely cream. Some cinnamon too. He could have started crying again if he didn’t swallow the tears with a sip of coffee. Sweet, milky, and sinfully decadent. 

“Thank you,” he repeated, far more genuinely this time. When he looked to meet Henry’s gaze properly, he saw the man also had a plate. Rice, beans, some sort of meat. His stomach throbbed, suddenly aware of the other scent in the room other than the aroma of coffee. 

“This is mine,” Henry explained, and, oh, Joey had to bite his tongue so hard not to cry out. “You’ll earn your own plate once you finish up with Grant.”

“Fair enough,” Joey mumbled, though it felt the exact opposite. Now that he was aware of the food, his stomach wouldn’t stop, as if the pain would incentivize him to eat something. That wasn’t in his hands. He took a slightly larger sip of coffee, hoping to trick it. It didn’t work.

He needed a third arm. One to hold his coffee, one to flip through the book, and the last to press a fist to his achingly hollow stomach. 

_wit soul counter external solid. Granco should be willing. Likelihood of failure low,_ he wrote. _Probably hard carapace structure, likely no nerve endings. Could be corrected quickly. Malleable silt - ink components align._

* * *

Grant arrived. As did Susie, but not Tom. Not unusual. Perhaps tomorrow. Hopefully tomorrow. Before the ink...

Joey had the proposal in hand for Grant to look over, each and every possible side effect listed in careful detail, his best approximation on how it would feel to have his body forcibly realigned to follow Newton’s Law of Viscosity instead of degrading at a constant state and certainly instead of liquifying under stress. He smiled at them, having finally managed to button his shirt enough to be presentable (though his tie still sat on his desk, crumpled into a ball of frustration), and he hid his limp with loping strides, the shaking of his limbs with constant motion. 

“Grant, I would have you consider this and weigh your decision while I meet with Susie,” Joey said, a flippant hand wave and sneering smirk. “I believe you’ll find it curated for your needs and well-thought out.”

“Glad to hear your pride hasn’t taken any hits,” Susie deadpanned. 

Joey rolled his eyes at her- but internally flinched. Was truly nothing so different about his behaviour? Henry called him a terrible liar. Surely they saw? ( _What if they do see?_ a traitorous thought occurred to him just then. _What if they do see and Henry is right about everything?_ )

His gait stumbled briefly as he lead her down the hall, but he picked up the pace instead. He reached the old projection room -- the only room with nearly adequate lighting and space-- and tried to ignore the memory of the perfect Boris strapped to the table. The room had been repurposed again, the appropriate runes carved into the flooring, pentagram painted on the ground. It was all… so familiar. 

His head swam. Who was laughing?

“Joey Drew!” Susie snarled. Joey jumped and looked back to find her several yards away. “Slow down!” 

“Do try to keep up, dear,” he said. Joey leaned against the doorway, arms crossed and lips pulled back as _something_ lurched in his chest. 

Fixing this was old hat at this point. The words came smooth, easy, magic flowing through his whole body. It almost felt effortless, if it weren’t for the fire it lit in his stomach and in his skull. 

Long after Their influence faded, his body buzzed and tingled. Ink coated his tongue and teeth no matter how much he swallowed.

A hand waved in front of his face. “Joey?” 

Who called-- he blinked and met Susie’s confused gaze. His cheeks ached like he’d been smiling. “Ah. Ms. Campbell.”

She drew back slightly and studied him. “Are you you again?” she asked him. “Or do I have to worry about you starting to smile like Bendy again?”

He snorted instead of laughing and waved her questions off. He wasn’t so sure of the answers anymore. “As always, Ms. Campbell, return in three weeks’ time,” he ordered, beginning to walk away. “Do see yourself out.”

She grabbed him by his wrist. He froze midstep. His breath froze in his throat. 

He had made a mistake. Susie was still ink. Strong. Not as strong as Henry but stronger than him. Joey tried to smile, tried to take his hand back, but she held firm. “Mr. Drew,” she said, all that sweet charm that had first convinced him she was the perfect Alice, “I am not leaving without the truth from you.”

“Need I remind you that each solution is highly individualized to each person’s specific infirmity-”

“Don’t give me that.” Susie lifted up Joey’s wrist. Or perhaps his arm. “Explain this.”

He stared. Blinked. “I believe you may be seeing things, my dear,” Joey began to explain, or at least tried to. How could he explain what she saw when there wasn’t anything unusual to explain? “Unless you mean my wrist? I’m no anatomist, but I assure you I am meant to have it, and I would prefer it _intact_ and _attached_.”

Her expression twisted into one of rage, fury greater than he’d ever seen, even when she was trying to kill him, crush the life from his windpipe, when everything had started to darken, when his lungs burned burned burned and ink filled his mouth and--

Since when was he on the floor?

The tacky sensation of dried ink coated his lips. Trying to piece together the gap in his memory, he wiped at the crusty fluid. 

The ritual. Susie grabbing him. His own panic- was that what had happened? Nothing. And now he was on the floor. 

He needed to stand. Return to Grant, check on both him and Susie, speak to Henry. He needed to get up, move, function. His eyelids, oh so heavy, drooped and his head lolled back to rest against the wall. 

* * *

Henry burned with frustration and rage as he carried Joey back to his office. The man had horrible timing. It was almost like he’d planned it to humiliate him as much as Joey-ly possible. Though he had to admit he himself had a hand in this. He overestimated Joey. He pushed him too hard, apparently, and now Susie had it in her head that Joey needed to rest more. 

It was easy enough to play the concerned partner and best friend, when Susie came running and demanded he come pick Joey up off the floor and _feed him, Stein_. Henry hid his frustration under feigned shock and a few tears. 

“I knew he wasn’t eating enough,” Henry had babbled, as if in a panic. “I should have done more, oh Joey, I’m sorry.”

Grant had come to his rescue, telling Susie that Joey was a grown man and didn’t, shouldn’t, need someone to remind him to take a break. 

Then Henry had hit a goldmine. Susie had admitted to grabbing his wrist- and Henry took full advantage. He painted the scene. That Joey, who had been manacled as beast Bendy, had been pushed into a panic attack. _And_ , he had added, hiding his glee, _the last time you had a hold on him, you were trying to kill him._

Susie had gone white, and so had Grant. And in no time at all, he had Susie on the defensive, Grant glaring at _her_ , and Joey’s little performance had lost its teeth.

Henry glanced down thoughtfully at the unconscious man in his arms. He hefted the man’s weight, testing it. Maybe he had gone a little too far, he conceded, if Joey was passing out. 

Joey had reacted well to the cream and sugar in his coffee. Maybe Henry could give him a cup or two a week, as treats for good behaviour. That worked on dogs, after all, and Joey certainly knew how to act like a bitch in heat at times. And maybe he could allow Joey to sleep in bed with him- just sleep. He had gotten so caught up in punishing Joey that he had forgotten an entire aspect of training him. He’d gotten sloppy.

Mind made up, Henry started off in the direction of what had become his bedroom. 

Joey stirred and slurred something incoherent.

Henry whispered, “Shh, doll, I got you.”

Joey did not shh. Instead he whined something that might have been Henry’s name.

“I know, baby, I know,” he said. “Just bear with me, okay? You’ve been so very good. I’m so proud.”

It was pathetic how quickly Joey went limp in his arms, soothed by a few pretty words. It just made Henry angrier with himself. He’d overlooked something so simple. Even the sturdiest tool snapped under constant strain without some sort of routine care. 

Joey whined and winced as Henry set him down on his bed, but went slack again quickly. “Henry,” he whimpered. “I love you.”

“I know you do,” Henry said, kissing his forehead. “I know.”


	2. Lustrous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This was his Henry,” to the end of the chapter heavily implies sex.  
> Important to note that in that section, if you skip it, Joey internalizes the guilt and blames himself and accepts what has happened as his own fault and that he must behave better in order to make them both happy.

The day after his collapse in front of Susie, Joey had expected Henry’s anger. He expected it, yet it never came. Instead, Henry changed. He was practically a different man.

He was not expecting Henry to be quite so gentle with him after such a display. Certainly hadn't expected Henry to cup his face and kiss his brow and rub circles in his back when Joey threw up the meal Henry had so kindly and generously made for him. To whisper assurances that he could stop for the night, that he could come to bed, that he had done enough for now. To carry him when his knees threatened to fold, when the spinning became overwhelming. 

One day turned to one week. Henry had not hit him once in all that time. Had not even raised his voice, let alone a fist. Joey slept in bed with Henry, and even when he woke up with a strangled cry Henry didn’t yell at him or call him selfish or banish him from the bed. He read him excerpts from his book, Joey’s head in his lap, and let him fall asleep that way, kept warm, comfortable, and secure. 

One week turned to two. Two, to three. Joey continued tuning up anyone who returned to the studio. (He kept a calendar and a record of everyone who survived. Marked when they last arrived, when they were due, when they actually arrived. The list of survivors was so unbearably, horrifically small. So disgustingly short, all the heavier for it. He murdered fifty-two people and shattered so many more families. But these, these he had not killed and these he would ensure continued to survive and eventually thrive.) He picked up smoking again, hating the comfort the burn brought, hating that he had returned to a decades old habit, but anxious enough to crawl the walls otherwise. He despised asking more of his employees, asking repayment for mitigating what he himself had caused already rankled and made him feel like slime, and asking for more only made the tight ball of guilt ever tighter. It was necessary, because Henry could not leave and Joey was-- well, he could not be trusted not to abandon everyone to their fates, as Henry reminded him. Therefore, they were dependent on repayment, on blood money. Joey found it ironic and not much different than before.

Three weeks and five days of a meal every day, an astounding total of seven sugary coffees in that same time frame, of sleeping in bed with an arm protectively curled around him, and Joey’s curiosity ate him up inside despite his attempt to self-medicate. Asking about it, bringing Henry’s attention to the treatment, could go horribly wrong. He could return to black coffee, sleepless nights, days of nothing but coffee and water and sleeping at his desk. But if he never asked, and Henry decided of his own volition to revert to the old ways, Joey would never learn what had changed and how he could attempt to replicate it.

“Henry,” Joey said, taking another drag off his cigarette and another sip of his coffee. Sweet and spiced, the coffee and smoke both. If he spoke up, it might be the last doctored coffee for a while, so he paused to take in the aroma and taste. “I have a curiosity.”

“You always do,” Henry laughed, not unkindly. He laughed so much more these days. “What is it?”

He fought the urge to chew on the filter, translating the anxious energy to pulling in another drag. Would Henry grab the mug out of his hands if he angered him enough? Possibly. Probably. “Before, you were rather…” He paused to find the right word and to exhale the smoke. “Ambivalent toward ensuring I was fed and slept.”

The look Henry gave him was heart-broken, mouth falling open, eyes teary and brows twisting into a pained rictus. “Oh, Joey,” he whispered, voice cracking. 

“I’m sorry,” Joey said in a rush. “That was unkind.”

He just shook his head, dropping it into his hands. “I’ll never be enough, will I?”

Joey set down his coffee, snubbed out the light, and rushed to Henry’s side, pressing his forehead to his back as he wrapped his arms around him. “You are plenty, I never intended to insinuate otherwise.”

“I didn’t realize,” Henry whispered. “I thought you would tell me if you were struggling. I thought…”

His breath caught in his throat, matching the hitch in Henry’s voice. 

“I thought you trusted me. Loved me. I assumed. I’m sorry, Joey.”

Joey swallowed thickly. Three, nearly four, weeks was not nearly long enough to forget Henry’s hand on his wrist, voice cold as he asked where Joey thought he was going, to forget every glare and sneer, every mockery of his human needs. No, he had never said he couldn’t eat, but he had told him to prioritize his research over everything else. Or had Joey just assumed? If he had told Henry, explained just how tired he was, instead of being so flippant about it, would things have gone differently?

“Joey?” And oh. No no, Henry was crying now. Panic built in Joey’s throat. 

“You're not my minder,” he mumbled finally. “What you do and don’t remind me to do isn’t your responsibility. The onus of my well-being is upon me.”

_But it wasn’t a matter of memory_ , a traitorous part of him hissed. His stomach had constantly ached, cramped, turning in on itself and his body cannibalizing itself to keep him alive because he lived off ink fumes and coffee and the occasional concession when he had 'earned' it. He did not forget his exhaustion as his thoughts blended together, words mixing and syllables twisting up inside one another, vision blurry and faded. He felt an odd buzzing in his chest and skull. Was he even breathing? 

“I can’t keep doing this, Joey. Thinking you’ve forgiven me only to hear— things like that.”

And wasn’t that the kicker? Henry was the one who bowed under the pressure. Henry, the man he’d depended on to orient himself when he was lost in the tide of work and forgot which direction the surface was. Henry, stable, steady Henry, cracked like plywood. The buzzing finally stopped, only now he felt hollow to the core, everything scooped out of his chest and left empty, laid at their feet like shattered glass. 

Shoulders trembling and his head bowed now, nearly touching the table, Henry sniffed, “I can’t— I can’t take it anymore. The guilt slinging. The tension. Walking on eggshells. I can’t take it, Joey, I deserve better than this.”

“No, no, love, wait,” he said in a rush. With every word, he pressed a kiss and a promise to his neck. “Henry, I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I won’t insinuate or accuse you of such cruelty and malice. I’m sorry I ever did. It was unthinking, thoughtless, and careless, of me. I’ve wounded you when all you asked for was trust.” 

“Do you mean it?” Henry asked, voice a fractured mockery of his usual tone. Shattered like his trust. 

Oh, God, what had Joey done? He broke his lover over a small misunderstanding. What sort of man was he? “Of course,” he promised, even despite knowing promises meant nothing coming from him. “Oh, darling, Henry, my precious love, forgive me, please.”

Henry finally straightened out and turned to face him. His eyes and face were red, blotchy with pain and betrayal.

Joey took the opportunity to take his face in his hands and whisper, “You will always be enough for me. More than I deserve, I suppose, if these tears are any indication.”

His laughter was wet. Weak. 

Oh, Joey, what did you do to this man? Didn’t you love him? He did the only thing that made sense and climbed into Henry’s lap, straddling him, squirming a bit as he did so. Henry's soft whine and groan rewarded his attentions.

“Allow me to show my remorse,” Joey begged, hands roaming. “Allow me to pleasure you. It’s the least I can do considering—”

Henry silenced the rest of the words with a kiss. His fingers, strong and calloused where pens had nested for hours upon hours, at _Joey’s_ insistence and demands, yet gentle enough to hold the hand of an infant, loosened Joey’s shirt collar. 

Blindly, Joey did the same, fumbling with the hem of Henry’s shirt, feeling like a teenager who didn’t know how to undress his partner. Only when he managed to lift the other man’s shirt, pulling back from the kiss to breathe and allow the fabric overhead, did he truly feel back in his element. 

This was his Henry. Whose touch was trailing fire, pure bliss, an artist working with gold to repair a broken thing to make his body something worth touching, worth feeling. Who held him up— at some point Henry had stood, took Joey with him— like he was worth admiring. His Henry, flushed and burning with desire for him. His beautiful, handsome, strong Henry. His Henry that promised never to hurt him, that he so loved, that loved him in return. They would be okay, provided Joey changed, provided Joey rose to meet this precedent set, and they would be happy together once more, peaceful, domestic bliss.

“I adore you,” Joey whispered in the haze. “I love you.”

Henry bit down harder on his shoulder and thrust a little deeper. Joey felt the pain of both and held back a cry. Henry groaned, “Oh, you don’t even know...”

He supposed he didn’t know. 


End file.
